


Verbally Triggered

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ethical Dilemmas, Hinting at F/M relationship, John Watson in Afghanistan, John Watson is Broken, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Medical Trauma, Mention of War-Related Traumatic Injuries, Military Backstory, Non-Linear Narrative, PTSD John, When he's not acting like a jerk Sherlock can be good to John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 20:19:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6023353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever wonder at some of the trauma that John Watson, ex-army doctor, carries with him from his experiences in Afghanistan?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Verbally Triggered

“Give that back!”  John glared, an eye narrowing, at his flatmate.  “Mine.  Addressed to me.  You are not entitled...” and he would have continued but for Sherlock interrupting.

“Why don’t you just shut up and make me?”  John felt his jaws clench.  Sherlock was desperately in need of a case to alleviate the boredom.  A bored flatmate almost always spelled trouble for John.

There was a sparkle in Sherlock’s eye as he held John’s letter out of reach with his blasted gangly arms.  John was not put off in the least at their height difference, because in the end, John was feisty enough that it was not a disadvantage in the least.

And in truth, his mind spurred him, if he really cared to dwell on it, there were other measurements to consider: John was the same length but thicker where the real comparison would likely never actually take place.  They’d been shagging, sleeping together for a few months now, maintaining separate rooms out of their keen sense of independence, actually sleeping in short intervals in one bed or the other, usually Sherlock’s out of his laziness to climb the stairs.  Separate spaces also, John had considered more than once, hopefully would decrease the likelihood that one day John would snap and do him actual bodily harm in frustration or self-defence.

“Don’t think I can’t overpower you, _berk_.”

John’d had a reputation in the army for his tenacity - when he wanted something, he was bound and determined to get it, and did, with alarming success rates.  He’d fought his share of brawls when necessary, and fought smart, dirty if necessary, as opposed to simply with his strength.  His success rates with Sherlock were not quite what they'd been in the military, but they far exceeded anyone else's successful confrontations with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock stood on the balls of his feet, letter outstretched.  It was some boring, formal invitation, he figured, from an old army buddy, but John didn’t know that yet, and Sherlock himself was bored.  The last case from Lestrade had been long ago solved, and he was seeking distraction in the form of his flatmate and playmate.  The post had conveniently dropped into his lap, and he was exploiting John’s weakness for personal connection.

John advanced, eyes riveted on Sherlock, staring him down and body tensed for action if necessary.  He cut off the escape angle to one side looking to corner the man by the window.

“Give it.”

“No.”

John lunged suddenly, knee coming between Sherlock’s, arms around his waist, a perfectly executed single leg takedown.  His arms broke their fall and actually ensured Sherlock wasn’t hurt.  His weight pressed Sherlock into the floor, and Sherlock’s long arm still held John’s letter far out of his reach.

So John attacked again, his thumb and index finger coming playfully to Sherlock’s waist, just slightly higher, that awfully sensitive ticklish spot that Sherlock abhorred.  He considered being ticklish a weakness, and John typically didn’t fight dirty with him, but this was war and he was determined to win.  John wondered, not for the first time, if the ticklishness was just yet another reason Sherlock disliked Mycroft so intensely, leftover childhood spats.  John himself would only rarely resort to these extreme measures.  He squeezed into the muscle of Sherlock’s waist just below his ribs, a couple of times, bringing an immediate squeak and twitching and his arm flailing in an effort to protect himself and remove the impetus driving him to distraction.

His head came down, arm pressing against John’s shoulder, the letter now within reach, and he hissed trying to be fierce even as the laughter erupted, “Don’t be such a brute!”

++

“Don’t be such a brute, John!”  There was laughing and sparkling eyes and a complaint voiced loudly and somewhat with justification.  John was a physical player and a force on the field.

The soldier held the American football out of John’s reach, but John had simply wrangled a muscled arm up and over, forcing the ball back into play as he brought an elbow up then, laughing, passed the football back to another teammate.  He didn’t let go, however, of Kelvin’s arm.  Their eyes connected, bright smiles there on the sandy field in Kandahar.  The medical unit had a dwindling patient load at present, and was blowing off steam and physical energy with a pick up game of football, and while the rules had been tweaked to suit them (after the last tackle injury, the CO had insisted on a tackle-free imperative), much of the unit had embraced the ease of a pick-up game.  

“I’ll be a brute if I want the ball.”  He knew his chest was out, knew Kelvin had a thing for John’s muscled pecs, could see it in his eyes that he was enjoying their physical contact and looking forward to more.  They hadn’t passed out of a flirting stage yet, but it was coming, soon, and the thrill of the chase, particularly with John’s arm forcing Kelvin’s back and keeping their bodies in close proximity, was particularly promising.  Especially as they no longer had the excuse of the ball John was trying to get from him.

A fun smile showed up on Kelvin’s face, and he lowered his tone, “I’ll give it to you.  Later.”  Twisting harshly out of John’s grip, he stood close enough to let John’s eyes flick down his body and both of them seemed to have dry mouths and the need to lick their lips.  “Have fun running with that piece of wood, oi?”  And he was off.

++

Sherlock had been studying John since the day he walked through the lab door at Bart’s.  He was a quick learner, able to tell when John was upset or in pain or lost in difficult memories or concerned about one of the patients he was treating.  There were still rare times, however, when John’s mood and demeanor and affect was inscrutable, when the expression on his face meant he was somewhere locked within a carefully guarded area of his memories and he only ended up there by accident.  It was a haunted look about his eyes that revealed the depths of an exquisitely painful part.  Sherlock would have called it a locked inner room of his mind palace; John simply would have called it hell.

Sherlock stopped struggling to keep the letter out of John’s reach, but it didn’t matter, as John was no longer focused on the envelope.  He was, for a few long seconds, frozen in a bit of time and space, eyes open but less bright, definitely receiving input via iris, cornea, retina but seeing something else entirely.  

“John?” Sherlock asked tentatively.

John’s eyes snapped back into focus, seeing the concerned and puzzled and questioning expression on Sherlock’s face, that Holmesian tilt that both he and his brother used when studying something or trying to concentrate on something they didn’t understand.  It was as if he was asking ‘what is happening’ and ‘please tell me what is going on,’ communicating fluently with just the set of his eyes.

The furrow of his brow over the pale eyes drew John’s attention then, and he felt a wave of nausea, a sinking feeling of being lost, adrift, isolated.  “Oh my God,” came the whisper then.

++

“Oh my God,” John said, falling to his knees in the sand outside the medical triage area.  The latest batch of wounded arrived by foot, jeep, ambulance - set down for the medics to evaluate prior to any care being continued.  Kelvin looked up at him in fear and panic.  His nostrils were flaring, his color pale, pupils pinpoint and his gaze searching John’s face desperate for information.  His head tilted just slightly to the side in confusion and uncertainty and an attempt to study John’s face for answers.

“John?"

“You’re okay.  You’ll be fine.”  John had already on primary survey already deduced that Kelvin was dying, ready to succumb to traumatic injuries, the decimation of central structures.  He would bleed out, but was clinging to consciousness due to the emergency aid that had been rendered at the front.  A tourniquet was over his left thigh, tight, a gaping wound beneath it oozing steadily.  The left leg was mangled beyond repair, would require amputation.  But more than that was the gaping slash in his right side that angled inward and up.  A bloody dressing was saturated and dripping.  There had been a penetrating injury, an errant projectile piece of metal, to the area of T7-T8, vertebrae fractures assured just based on angle and depth of injury.   John investigated the exit wound just slightly, saw the protruding metal, all but confirming a complete cord sever at that point.  John gripped Kelvin’s hand then after moving him, found the hand cold, clammy.  Peripheral vasoconstriction had set in, trying to shunt blood to vital organs, the body’s last ditch attempt to survive.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

“I know.  It’s temporary.”  Their eyes met as John lied, meeting Kelvin's gaze with steadiness.  And they both knew the truth under the spoken false assurance.

Abby, a seasoned and competent nurse, was at John’s side, had been there a few moments, and she smiled down into Kelvin’s face.  “Hey, end of the line for you, buddy, we have real injuries to attend to here.”  She saw it all, knew the inevitable outcome, kept all seriousness out of her tone without being over-the-top silly.  “Dr. Watson’ll get you fixed up in no time, okay?”  In every other encounter, she would have called him John - the doctor title used to assure the patient that he would be properly and professionally cared for.

Kelvin nodded, looking from one to the other, the panic level lower, his eyes trying to draw strength from the friends attending him.

John put his hand out to the nurse touching her upper arm, holding through a warm gloved hand, said in very steady and even tones, “Lets get a couple of units of blood ready, get to work out here, get some xrays, and then we’ll take the first OR bed available, okay?”

For a few seconds she was puzzled, and when she nodded, glanced over at the staging area where blood was kept for rapid release, John held fast to her arm, ensuring that she remained right there where she was needed most.  She got it then, looking at John and knowing there was no time for any of that.  “Of course.  Pain medicine?”  They were speaking volumes to each other in just eye contact, breaking it only to look reassuringly at Kelvin.

“You having pain?” John asked him, moving his hand from Abby, the nurse, to Kelvin’s shoulder, squeezing it in what he hoped was a measure of comfort.

“No.  Tingly.  Can’t feel my legs,” he said again, the puzzled look on his face again.  He was a bit more pale already, signs of cardiovascular collapse imminent, already with signs of shock.

“We’ll save the pain medicine for once you wake up, then ok?”

He breathed deep, and John could see a few air bubbles work their way out the dressing on his flank, air obviously leaking from damaged lungs, communicating through the diaphragm into the abdominal cavity.  Kelvin’s expression as he stared intently, and as if clinging to John’s very presence, conveyed that of trust and confidence.  It was amazing that Kelvin wasn’t in more distress, John knew.  Sometimes the strength of the human spirit was just amazing, and they saw examples of that entirely too frequently.

John looked one final time at the fully soaked dressing, the gaping organ damage underneath visible almost through the very skin.  There was evidence of perforated bowel, and likely hepatic and renal injury too.  He considered the permanent spinal cord injury, the certainty of paraplegia at minimum.  He knew Kelvin’s civilian job as university coach, football his best and primary outlet when not on active duty, the job that awaited him and the fact that he lived for physical activities and outdoor everything.  Smiling again at Kelvin, nodding, John said, “Okay, another minute and we’ll get you moved into the OR.”

“Okay.”  He paused, his breath catching, which John knew was both related to anxiety, stress, and hypoxia from the collapsing lung.  “Thanks.”  His pallor was now accompanied by underlying cyanosis.

John let a hand ease down unseen to Kelvin’s leg, to the tourniquet over his left thigh, and tugged to release it, hastening the inevitable with mercy and companionship rather than to put any of them through the agonising trauma of relocation or worse, _treatment_ , the waste of time and resources moving Kelvin anywhere else.  He felt Abby’s eyes on him, watching what his hand had done and then quickly at his face.  He ignored her for the moment.  “I’ll be waiting for you when you wake up.”

“Okay, John.  I trust you.  You’re a good...” his voice was quieter and slowing, his eyes drifting slightly closed even that quickly as he spoke.  The arterial bleeding had begun in earnest, and Kelvin took a breath, slow and shallow, then his chest was still.

John spoke again, seeing the pulsation from the artery continue for a few more beats.  “You’re okay.  You’ll be fine,” John said.  There was another agonal breath, and then nothing.

++

“You’re okay,” Sherlock said to him, staring into open blue eyes that were more moist than usual, that were stunned, pupils dilated as he took in obvious images from memory that had activated catecholamine surge, and Sherlock could see the bounding pulse at his neck, fast and thrumming.  His skin was flushed, mouth slightly parted, muscles tensed above Sherlock’s body.

John’s eyes blinked once, then, and his awareness returned long enough to look into Sherlock’s concerned blue eyes.

“You’ll be fine,” he said and John’s eyes then closed, a harsh and deliberate swallow followed by the deep sigh of the disappointed.

“God, I’m sorry.”  He hadn’t thought of active duty, nor Kelvin, nor of that fateful, paralyzingly day, in quite some time.  "I'm sorry."

“You want me to call Ella?”  His voice was gentle.  “It wasn’t quite as bad this time, at least.”

“No.”  He took a deep breath, hating the trembling that came along with it, hating the weakness, cursing the memory of even a merciful decision (that John would make again in the moment, he knew it).  The episodes were fewer and farther between, at least, and had not involved actual bloodshed since the very first time when Sherlock had been too close, too emphatic, and too intrusive - and in the flight path of John’s very unhappy fist.

“And stop apologising.  You’re okay.”  And this time when Sherlock said it, John’s eyes opened again and he smiled the saddest of smiles, the corners of his mouth rounding slightly and his frown appearing again.  He relaxed against the prone form that minutes previously he’d tackled in order to get a letter that now neither of them particularly cared about.  

Sherlock reached a hand up, smoothing errant blond hair from John’s temple, his other arm reaching around his back to pull him closer.  The floor was uncomfortable but it wouldn’t be much longer.  If history could be depended upon to repeat itself, in short order other forces would come into play, and they would seek confirmation of life and living and loving as best they could. 

Another sigh, and some of the tension eased out of John’s shoulders.  He could feel Sherlock’s breathing against his body, even the steady cadence of his heart lifting ribs as John lay, pressed close.  He was solid, warm, alive, and present in both body and spirit.  John felt Sherlock’s legs shift, just trying to get comfortable, and his arms resting closely along his sides and across his back now, holding, unassuming.  It felt like safety, for both of them, but it had not come without cost.

The briefest recollection of the unspoken interaction between them that came to a head that day at the pool, the pendulum of expressions on Sherlock’s face.  He’d had, initially, doubt that perhaps John had orchestrated evil, luring Sherlock into danger, but then he’d unzipped his jacket to reveal the explosives that Moriarty had strapped him into.  It had been the catalyst that night - motivated out of the fear of loss, the realisation of mutual caring and desire, and that had been the first time they’d sought physical connection and sexual release.   It had been too quick and beautiful in spite of it, and a poignant beginning to a wonderful aspect of their relationship.  John craved it again.

John cursed the brokenness he was feeling, the weakness, knowing that yet again they would work this out, the pain he felt would be replaced.  Sherlock was waiting for him to begin.  “I need...”

++

“I need...” Abby began as she saw John enter from the outside, but let the sentence dangle as a few other staff entered behind him.  Their eyes met, the first they’d been face to face in the five days since the staging area after the explosion and Kelvin’s mortal injury.

John held his eye contact steady, smiled just slightly, and nodded.  He turned to the officers behind him, “If you could excuse me for a moment?”

He led the way into the smaller, walled off record room, where there was a modicum of privacy.  Abby followed, looking uncomfortable.

He paused at the doorway, allowing her to enter ahead of him, then, and he closed the thick canvas door behind them.  “I needed to talk to you, John.”  Her voice cracked, broke, splintered, and John watched her blink quickly in an effort to dispel the moistness of her eyes.  He knew why she was there, let her put words to it.  “About Kelvin.”

“Of course.”  She was quiet, and he could see her struggling to decide how to begin.  “Thank you for supporting him, then.  You did a great job, and it was exactly what he needed.”

“I just can’t stop wondering...” and the blinking ended up being futile as a tear spilled over, and John located a handkerchief from his fatigues, handed it over.  When her words were slow to resume, he pointed her to a chair, which she took as he crouched down at her side to be close to eye level.

“It's ok to wonder, of course.  His injuries were 100% fatal.  There was no surviving any of that.  You understand that?”

“I know.  I know.  I get it.  But just... doing nothing?”

“Let me turn it back a bit.  He knew, knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was done for.  I could see it, and so could you.”  When she nodded, he continued.  “We could certainly have placed a few sternal IOs, ran in blood, IV fluids, bought him a few minutes or an hour, perhaps - although unlikely - gotten him onto the OR table.  I could have resected kidney, lobe of liver, amputated high on the left femur.  Maybe.  A longshot to survive that kind of OR case.  Wound infection, almost a certainty.  Kidney failure, almost definitely.  It’s likely he would have lost his pulses while still conscious in the triage area, and then what?  His last memories are his friends doing compressions, breaking ribs, inflicting more pain with no hope of recovery?  His last aware moments that way would have been full of pain and fear.”

Her tears fell more regularly.  “I know,” she whispered, “I know all of that.”

"And we did something, we were with him in those moments that could have been terrifying for him."

She nodded, words stuck in her throat.

“I know you do, Abby, and this is okay.”  He put a warm hand on her arm, hoping it conveyed a little compassion.  She had a big and kind heart, worked tirelessly to rend both physical and emotional care to the patients who came through their medical unit.  “I understand.  We train to save lives, to do everything humanly possible in terrible conditions.”  John waited, and when she still didn’t look up, he took her chin, lifted it to face him.  A sad smile passed over her features and her lips quivered.  “We were good friends to him, and the very last gift we gave him was a merciful death, without pain, and with as much dignity as we could.”  He let her go, and her head bowed again with a sigh and a nod.  “It sucks that sometimes the last thing we ever get to do for those we care about is to help them die well.”

“I need...”  Her eyes rose to find his, brimming with both shed and unshed tears.  A mutual grief entwined them, and his strong arms encircled her thin shoulders.  She sagged against him in a bit of relief as he absorbed her shudder of emotion.

“I know.  I’ll come find you when your shift is over.”  It was completely understood what the liaison would entail.  “I know a place, and I’ll take care of you.”

++

“I’ll take care of you.”  Sherlock moved then to sit up, ready to nudge John into a happier and healthier place.  His back gave a few satisfying cracks as he did so.  John’s initial change of position was simply to sitting upright, where he then leaned his head forward so it rested on his knees.  The problem with that, Sherlock had long deduced, was that it trapped John behind his eyelids even further, back in a place of unpleasantness where the insecurity still rose up, overwhelming him every now and again.  “John.”

The gentleness of his spoken name, unrushed, gave him hesitation.  John opened his eyes, as Sherlock intended.  He felt the slight tremble in his chest as he breathed, then allowed himself the luxury of reaching for the outstretched hand in front of his face, long fingers, long caring and talented fingers, that awaited him.  He let Sherlock lead him to a standing position, and then strongly into his embrace.  The snog was confident, firm, strong, meant to escalate the physical sensations, to promise _more_.  John’s embrace was returned, muscles in his shoulders tensing, pulling tight.  There was gripping of fingers, not harsh enough to leave marks, but emphatic and secure.  Sherlock nudged John down the hall toward the bedroom.  It was here that Sherlock had learned that John’s needs were never predictable.  Sometimes he wanted to dominate, to be the aggressor, to control how they proceeded - but never out of hand or  hurtful or without permission.  Other times, and Sherlock suspected that today was going to fall more into the kinder end of the spectrum, he wanted to be led, cared for, gentled into a lax and pliant participant, where Sherlock chose and instigated and orchestrated.

Sherlock watched as John simply crossed the room, sat down on the bed, waiting and willing and patient.  Toeing off shoes, Sherlock moved to John, fingers reaching for buttons, and when John brought his own hands up to reciprocate, Sherlock gently swatted them away.  John let his hands fall back into his lap, and Sherlock watched with slight amusement as some of the anxiety left John’s shoulders as he submitted.  Shirt undone finally, Sherlock cued, “lift,” and John raised his arms, then stood again as Sherlock merely gestured.  Trousers and pants soon followed, and Sherlock inclined his head toward the pillow, indicating, and John pulled the duvet down, got comfortable against the headboard, waiting for direction.  He was already semi-erect.

Sherlock removed his clothing with a minimum of fuss, joined him on the bed.  He paused before getting too involved, to grab lube and a condom from the nightstand, watched John’s pupils flare in arousal and anticipation.  He played John’s body with considerable skill, attentive as he’d learned to read responses, tweaking and nudging and pressing until John was moaning and heading toward mindless with desire.  A moan as Sherlock moved to apply condom and lube, and then another sharper moan as Sherlock’s fingers prepared him, and John was beyond ready.

“Oh my God, now!” he breathed.

++

“Oh my God, _now_!” John directed with clenched teeth from the sandy ground.  His shoulder burned with pain, muscles and bone torn and broken by the bullet’s path.  As one, the corpsmen lifted at his say-so, placed him on the stretcher.  He was carried quickly by two soldiers to a waiting truck, slid in.  A nurse was tending to another wounded soldier with a head wound who, to John’s trained eye, was probably not going to survive the ride.  He forced his breathing to slow, tried to will his heart rate to lower - less pumping, less blood loss, survival mode.  Steeling his mind against the pain, he closed his eyes, heard the open palm slap the truck and the driver took off for the nearest med-evac unit.  His mind let him drift, and he conjured up some of the pleasant associations of travel as a kid with his family, the holidays, visiting family, or just out for a scenic drive.  The burning eased just enough for him to wonder if he was going into shock, and next he was aware, the truck was stopping and he opened his eyes.  He could smell the acridness of blood, his own, hearing noise of corpsmen ready to unload.  He wriggled his fingers, could feel blood ooze from the wound on his shoulder, and the pain triggered an almost surprised moan from him as the injury cramped up, a spasm.

The nurse was just drawing a sheet up over the other man’s head, and at John's voice, she turned, pasting on a smile as she met John’s eyes and said reassuringly, “We’re here.  The doctor will get you all fixed up in no time.”

The words were reminiscent of those he’d spoken, of those he’d heard others speak to patients.  They were not that unusual, but his expression must have revealed something as the nurse came closer, feeling his uninjured wrist for a pulse.  She knew he was a doctor, spoke his pulse rate, “Ninety or so.”  She peered under the dressing, shrugging with acceptance that it was stable enough.  “Problem?”

“None whatsoever.”  John eased his head back, closed his eyes again.  He wriggled his fingers again, just slightly.  He welcomed the pain, an exquisite reminder he was alive and likely to remain that way.

++

“Problem?”  Sherlock returned to the bed to find John laying quiet and still, eyes closed, head back.  He didn’t wait for an answer, simply wiped John’s belly and groin with the warm flannel, then set it aside.  

“None whatsoever.”  He wriggled his fingers, feeling the aching in his shoulder that never quite went away.  And even these years later, it was a welcomed friend and a good reminder of the frailty of life.  Opening his eyes, he breathed deep, rolled over, stretching, still naked in the sheets, to face Sherlock.

"I brought you tea, and..."  Sherlock stood, navy dressing gown loosely around his shoulders, smiling and waiting for John to notice what else he had.

A welcoming smile appeared then in response, and John held out his open palm. “I’ll take that letter now, thank you very much.”

"It's a wedding invitation, and we are only attending if it's someone you've never slept with."  Sherlock laid the letter in John's hand, letting his warm fingers linger and the smile come to his face.

John glanced at the return address, looked back at Sherlock, silently daring him to comment.  He knew his face was rather revealing but couldn't keep the amusement away from his expression.

"I'm pretty sure we won't be going to _Richard's_ wedding."  Sherlock sounded mildly uncertain.  There were times he was acutely aware of the Harry/Harriet confusion, when John managed to get one by him.

"Half right.  The correct part being we aren't going."  John attempted and failed to look mildly sheepish.  The back of the envelope had the names Richard and Abby written in slanted decorative script across the seal.  "Thanks for the tea."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> PTSD is nothing to mess with. Professional help is a must.
> 
> The injuries as described that Kelvin received are based on a true story. The release of the tourniquet is completely made up, although in certain instances, it just may be the most merciful care the patient could ever receive.
> 
> Comments or kudos if you are so inclined. There are a few more of these post-War snippets brewing.


End file.
